The idea of fixing his breakfast, his clothes, his coffee and arranging her personal; schedule probably rattled me more than any of his s****l demands. I didn’t clean the apartment or cook—he had a real maid for that. But I did the things a wife would do and that scared me. More than scared me—terrified me. They brought me closer to his side, closer into his private space, and to vulnerability, his weaknesses, his fears. My panic grew.
I woke up one morning in a cold sweat. Reality was biting my ass—welts from a confrontation with his leather belt laid on my behind the night before, when Preston decided to abuse it; I suppose because he hadn’t in some time and we were both due. It was more than my ass that hurt, however; my eyes and body ached seeing my things around me in my single room
